A 20-acre utopia smack dab in the middle of Hillmomba, where Hillbilly Mom posts her cold-hearted opinions, petty grievances, and self-proclaimed wisdom in spite of being a technology simpleton.

Monday, July 28, 2014

The Storm Before The Calm

Dang! Around this time tomorrow morning, Farmer H will be piloting the one-mirrored T-Hoe into the parking lot of MoBap for my procedure. I am not looking forward to it. In fact, I am trying to bury my head in the sand. I am as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. MEEEOWWWW!

I have to go to bed early so I can get up at 3:00 a.m. Why bother, I say. Might as well stay up. But that wouldn't be prudent. So I'm off to toss and turn at the crack of dusk.

This is nothing new. I'm always nervous about any hospital procedure. Except one. The time I had my gallbladder out was kind of an emergency. However, I was left to languish in a tilted position in my hospital bed from Friday afternoon until Sunday morning, because the level of some enzyme was too high for surgery. In the meantime, I was not worried. I had a painkiller IV (maybe that's why!), I had a visit from Farmer H every evening, I wrote up a week's worth of lesson plans for my sub the following week, and I had an eerie calm demeanor. In spite of watching a 20/20 segment on waking up during surgery the night before my scheduled cholecystectomy.

If only I could get that calm back. I had the attitude that whatever happened would happen. Nothing I could do would change it. My dad had passed away eight months before. Everybody else survived and went on with their lives. My private hospital room had been gifted with a roommate. She had been in town shopping and had some heart issues. It was not something new to her. She looked like Delta Burke, and fancied herself up with a lacy bed jacket and makeup, and had a sweet southern accent. Her husband, however, was better looking than Dash Goff. She was the sweetest thing, not screaming at the staff or asking for heroin, but instead asking how I felt, and promising to pray for me during my surgery. Thank the Gummi Mary, she did not have her maid Consuela bring her pig Noelle for a visit, nor did she have a visit from the faux Consuela, Anthony Bouvier, who was concerned about the INS noticing his freakishly large ankles.

There. I'm feeling calmer already. I plan to spend this evening banking some blog posts for tomorrow, viewing some DVRs of The Middle, and watching old sitcoms in my head after I go to bed.